Valinthras Herondale Snakewrithe
Valinthras sat in bed that night. It was an awkward evening. He had severe exhaustion
from fighting on the front. He had meddled with more cultist minds and seen more
thought perversions than he cared to recall in full detail lest it put him on the brink
of insanity. He had taken this opportunity to sleep: an opportunity he did not take
often in his unlife. However, try as he might, he could not bring himself to shut his
heavy eyes.
Hours and hours passed as his weary eyes traced the curvature of the wooden ceiling
above him. He began to dream... not a rested dream, but rather like a daydream. His
life began to flash before him. He was with his friend in Venomspite fighting
Deathwing and his minions. Insein was there, firing her combination of elemental
magic to both freeze and smolder her enemies. Velexie was there, firing spikes of
shadowfrost which drove themselves through the heads of her foes. Claire was there,
burning the cultists with the holy light... commanding it like no other Forsaken he
knew could. Endicott was there, firing arrows laced with poison and shadow to pierce
even the hardest armor. Tiras was there, firing bolts of green flame and raising fallen
foes to do her bidding. Even Verner was there, but this Verner was different. This
Verner commanded infernals who fell from the sky. He set his enemies ablaze in shadow.
It was quite a marvel to see this side of Verner: a fearless and malicious side that
Valinthras had longed to see out of his assistant. However, it was short-lived. As he
fell deeper into real sleep, the dream shifted. He was back in the Apothecarium. He
could see the shipments coming in from Northrend. Grand Apothecary Putress was at a
work bench in front of him, using his gnomish microscopic goggles to examine a new
batch of plague recipe that had come in. Valinthras was helping him do this, but as an
inferior he never received any credit for the work he completed on the plague. It
would have made his blood boil had it not clogged long ago. Secretly, he envied Putress.
He envied that the man was receiving credit for the work of many Apothecaries. He was
receiving credit for what would become the Forsaken's most deadly weapon against the
Scourge and the living.
The scene flashed again. Valinthras was back in his old bedroom in Brightwood. He looked
down at his hands, surprised to find that there was fine, tanned flesh over his bones.
He was completely naked under the sheets. A girl he did not remember was beside him in
the bed, asleep. It was a reminder of his sinful past. Every night there was a new
woman. He would not be surprised if every child in town was secretly his own. Valinthras
pulled himself out of bed and brought himself to the bathroom. There, he peered into
the vanity mirror, combing his white-blond locks of hair. Blue eyes peered back at him,
the warm feeling of life and energy. Suddenly, the man felt his stomach wrench. He
emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor, the fell forward as his vision faded
to darkness.
Once Valinthras' vision returned, he was a small child again. He walked through the dark
forest of the Blackwald with his father, Malachi, before they came to a small, well-kept
graveyard. They stopped at the largest gravemarker, labelled with his mother's name
"Cecilia Cromwell-Herondale." His father knelt and prayed, leaving a scarlet Gilnean
rose on the mound. He could remember feeling confusion about his father's sentimentality
for a woman Valinthras had never met. It was only years later that his father would
explain to him who she was and what happened during his birth.
Lightning struck in the sky in a flash of white. The scene became clear again. The
Forsaken was in Brill upon the executioner's block. Tried as he might, the shackles were
locked tight. As he pulled on them, he felt intense pain. They were laced with holy oil.
In the crowd he could see his beloved friends and family dressed in black. They looked
at him with hardened eyes. The women, especially Claire and Insein, cried discolored
tears from their sockets, but the looks were filled with scorn. A black figure rose out
of the crowd to present itself before him. When it pulled its hood back, he was
face-to-face with the Dark Lady. She was angry, and she could see it in her rage-filled
expression. His a malicious grin, she barked to the crowd. "This man has been accused of
treason against the Forsaken. He shall receive the harshest punishment under Forsaken
law: True Death." She turned back to the guards and yelled, "Off with his head!"
The guillotine blade fell and Valinthras felt his body jerk as he woke himself up. He
held his pounding head and sat up. He was panting hard, and soon enough tears began to
stream out of his face. There, in the darkness of a frozen world, he wept...
Alone
